A perfect blank! That's
exactly what some people were pointing out as the reason for receiving
you cautiously. It was all perfectly accidental, arising from my
informant striking an acquaintance with an intelligent skindresser
lodging in that particular slum-house. A wonderful coincidence!"
"A pious person," suggested Razumov, with a pale smile, "would say that
the hand of God has done it all."
"My poor father would have said that." Sophia Antonovna did not smile.
She dropped her eyes. "Not that his God ever helped him. It's a long
time since God has done anything for the people. Anyway, it's done."
"All this would be quite final," said Razumov, with every appearance of
reflective impartiality, "if there was any certitude that the 'our young
gentleman' of these people was Victor Haldin. Have we got that?"
"Yes. There's no mistake. My correspondent was as familiar with Haldin's
personal appearance as with your own," the woman affirmed decisively.
"It's the red-nosed fellow beyond a doubt," Razumov said to himself,
with reawakened uneasiness. Had his own visit to that accursed house
passed unnoticed? It was barely possible. Yet it was hardly probable.
It was just the right sort of food for the popular gossip that gaunt
busybody had been picking up. But the letter did not seem to contain any
allusion to that.
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